


Apocrypha

by aureliu_s



Series: The Dragonborn Era [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Female Protagonist, Hermaeus Mora is gross, Miraak deserves better, Miraak in Apocrypha, Miraak is Saved, Miraak is lowkey a babe, Multi, Multiple Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Other, The Author Regrets Nothing, asshole characters, rewritten piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 00:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: Not one had heard Miraak or felt his presence, only her. Her grip on Dawnbreaker shifted. Outside, the wind screamed. On it, a parting message fell into her ears:I grieve that you must meet your end this way, but necessity demands it. In another life, ahtlahzey.***In which the Dragonborn travels to Solstheim to deal with that bastard calling her a pretender, and returns with the First Dragonborn who calls her "ahtlahzey" in tow.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> the first fic of 2019!! I worked on this for the better part of December, and originally I was going to post it as the last fic of 2018, but as you can probably see I didn't get it done in time :) comments and kudos are lovely!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya meets the first dragonborn, arrogant bastard that he is; he pays a visit later that night to gloat.

_“Who are you to dare set foot here?”_

_The lightning bolt struck her with trained precision, momentarily deafening her to his voice. She fell to the ground with a grunt, the air around her filled with the oppressive static of magic._

_The man in the dark robes advanced, towering over her. Talos, how tall was he? When he knelt, he reached a hand behind her head and yanked._

_She came face to face with a lazily content looking mask, gold in color, with tentacles hanging from the bottom like a sculpted beard. Some part of it reminded her of a Dragon Priest mask--the eyes, the mouth, but it looked like someone had pulled the metal back across his hood to resemble the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora. The mask’s half-closed eyes stared at her for a moment before he inhaled deeply._ _  
_ _“Ah,” came his voice again, this time less accusatory than before. “You are Dragonborn. I can feel it.” His free hand brushed over the collar of her grey cloak, touching the fabric briefly. “Ahtlahzey. Your magicka runs deep, Dragonborn. And yet...” he paused, letting go of her collar and pulling her head back again. “So you have slain Alduin. Impressive.” Despite the arrogance that came off him in waves, something in him sounded sincere. “I could’ve slain him myself, long ago when I walked the earth as you do. They wanted me to--Hakon and the rest. I chose a different path.” His gloved fingers let go of her hair and he straightened out._

 _“No matter. Solstheim will soon be mine--already the minds of the people belong to me. They will finish building my temple, and I will return home.”_   


_“Oddly sentimental from the man who’s trying to kill me,” Tharya groaned, standing uneasily on her feet. Miraak paused, half-turning to her. His mask gave nothing of the countenance beneath, but he chuckled._ _  
_ _“Send her back where she came from,” he instructed the monstrous creatures with multiple arms who had been hovering the darkness. Talos, what were those? They floated forward. Miraak turned away, his footsteps echoing all around Apocrypha. “She will await my arrival with the rest of Tamriel.”_

 

“Wake up, Dragonborn!” Frea shook her again, and this time recoiled as the blonde woman flew up, reaching for her sword. “No, no--no need for weapons. You are with a friend.” 

Tharya glanced around the room; they were still beneath Miraak’s temple, weren’t they?  

 

 _Till we meet again, ahtlahzey._  

The voice echoed in her ears but Frea didn’t seem to hear it. Instead, the Skaal woman helped her onto her feet, saying something about how the sun had already set and they should return to her village for the night. She handed the Dragonborn her staff. Vaguely she heard herself agreeing with the Skaal, and her feet carried her out of the temple.

_Here in my temple..._

With every step that carried her away, his voice faded. The tingling in her spine faded.

_Here in my shrine..._

Frea asked if she had a place to stay in Raven Rock. Tharya said no.

_That you have forgotten._

 

* * *

 

“You say you saw him, then? Miraak?”

She nodded slowly, rubbing her hands against the fire’s warmth.  
“He was...tall. I didn’t see his face--he wore a mask,” vaguely she gestured to her own face, “with tentacles, or something.” Frea grimaced and looked to her father for any kind of explanation. The older man sat back with a gentle sigh, raising a white eyebrow.

“How tall?” He queried, despite Frea’s eye roll.

“At least six and a half feet, if not more. So I’m not the only one who thinks that’s the most interesting thing about him so far?”

“He is an Atmoran, an Ancient Nord. They were much taller than us. Much more gifted in intellect.” 

“Just how long ago was he supposed to have died?” The Last Dragonborn asked, thoughtfully rubbing the side of her head.

“Thousands of years ago, in the Metheric Era. You say you did not see his face?” Tharya shook her head. “Shame. I wonder if serving in a plane of Oblivion has changed him.” 

 

Oblivion. How long had he been there? Storn’s musing had piqued her interest in what this _Atmoran_ had done for centuries with only the company of Hermaeus Mora. Before she could get far into her thoughts, though, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Storn and Frea’s matching eyes followed her as she stood.

“I’ll head out for Saering’s Watch first thing tomorrow. The Word of Power you talked about should come in handy.” She nodded respectfully to Frea and Storn before going off to find a space to lay her bedroll out in the main building of the village.

Her corner was drafty, farther from the fire than she would’ve liked. Outside, the wind scraped and tore at the walls, like a savage animal trying to get in. It was a cold, even for a Nord. Talos, however these people managed to live here year-round, she couldn’t understand it. She _dozed_ rather than slept, eyes hardly closed for more than a couple hours at a time. Grotesque images of the First Dragonborn being swallowed by the writhing tentacles of the Black Book plagued her. Dawnbreaker remained dim in its sheath, strapped faithfully to her back, her staff tucked into her arms. It was during one of her intervals of half-sleep that the voice resurfaced, the chant slid like a lover into the bedroll beside her, capturing her in two snaking arms of its words.

 

_Here do you toil_

_That you might remember_   
_Here you reclaim..._

 

She jolted upright, hands reaching for her sword. The hilt came out glowing bright.

 

 _What faithless minds have stolen_ _  
_ _Far from yourself..._

 

It was impossible not to recognize that voice—deep and rich, echoing, booming. Oppressive but gentle, in an uncomfortable way, soothing with a touch of condescension. The building was dark save the fire in the middle, dying slowly down against the winter cold.

“So you are the Last Dragonborn.”

Tharya grunted as she attempted to lift her feet from the ground, but they didn’t move. She was frozen in time, halfway to assuming a warrior’s stance, her knuckles white around her staff. The first sparks of a spell in her palm. “Prophesied and written about a great deal. I have heard much.”

Miraak’s voice filled her head, covered her ears like it had in Apocrypha, with the same echo and booming effect. Surely some of the other Skaal could hear him? They had to wake up.

“And you have killed Alduin,” he noted, just as he had during their encounter earlier in the night. “A commendable feat. I would almost call you an equal, _ahtlahzey_. It will be a shame to kill you.”

“Then why?” She found her voice unhindered even as the rest of her body remained frozen in time. “I don’t see why someone always has to die.”

From behind her, he chortled.

“At first I could write you off as a _nisaad_. Pretender. But you have completed your prophecy; your Thu’um is strong. To ignore your _saadom_ would be arrogant of me.”

“As if you weren’t already arrogant enough.”

His footsteps made the wood floor creak. Not one Skaal stirred. Miraak circled her, stepping briefly into the dim light before he turned to the Last Dragonborn. She couldn’t see his face, but the outline of his mask was missing; his hood was up.

“Divines, how tall are you?” She muttered. It was unmistakably rhetorical but Miraak answered anyway.

“Taller than you.”

Arrogant bastard.

His gloved hand came up, fingers taking her chin with an unforeseen tenderness. Despite her paralyzed state, he angled her head upwards.

“A single age births two Dragonborns. Impressive, indeed.” His grip shifted to her jaw, still light but demanding.

Neloth’s words floated back into her head. _It seems you are able to resist the trance the others are under_ . Something in her chest felt weakly calming. Singing a sweet song of sleep, urging her to rest again, urging her to fall into the false safety that she was drowning in. _Out of sheer willpower! Fascinating._

Something, a finger clothed in smoothly worn leather, stroked her cheek. The chant was seeping back slowly into her veins, that damned mantra that played her taut muscles like violin strings.

”Though, I have been through many ages.” He sounded almost like a parent scolding their child. “The yoke of time will take you, _ahtlahzey_. Not me.”

 

_I grow ever nearer to you._

_Your eyes once were blinded,_

_Now, through them, do I see._

 

“You are not invincible.”  
“No, _ahtlahzey_ , I have made no such statement. I am merely a champion of escaping death.”

“Arrogant bastard.” It was impossible to see his face in the dark, but the remnants of his sigh broke against her skin.   
“Your power is great, Dragonborn. As is mine. Do you feel it? With your soul-”   
“Which you won’t have.”   
“You fight valiantly against fate.” His gloved fingers fell away from her chin, and in turn he lifted his head as he spoke, clasping his hands loosely behind his back. “In another life, I would applaud you for it. But even for you, _ahtlahzey_ , fate will come.”

The figure in front of her dissipated away, fell into nothingness. Behind where Miraak stood, the fire had roared back to life. The chant drained from her veins, became nothing more than a breathless whisper at the back of her head. He was gone. Outside, the wind screamed; on it, was one parting message:

 

_I grieve that you must meet your end this way, but necessity demands it. In another life, ahtlahzey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think most of the dovahzul is translated in-fic?  
> ahtlahzey - archmage  
> saadom - power/strength
> 
> a wee note: if you read this before i updated, you may notice my LDB's name changed. her original name was a filler that i didn't really like, so her new name is Tharya! (last name is Shatterthrone or Throne-Breaker but that hasn't really been revealed yet) it's an odd-ish spelling so it's pronounced: thar-ee-ah


	2. The Second Meeting

“This soul, _ahtlahzey_. It belongs to you?”

Tharya jolted awake, hand falling to her staff. It came up, inches from the Dragon Priest’s crotch. His hand caught it.

“For both our sakes, Dragonborn. I advise against that.”

His grip didn’t loosen. She stared up at Miraak—by now his voice was unmistakable to her ears—his figure nothing more than a silhouette against the moon. The fire had gone out hours ago. Tharya wrenched her staff from his grip, sitting up fully, moving to stand.

A gloved hand offered itself, palm-up. It made her stop; the First Dragonborn was trying to play her, undoubtedly. It was impossible to believe he wasn’t.

She could play along.

 

Tharya grabbed his hand and he pulled her up. Her attention was drawn to the glowing orb in his hand. It was a mix of pale blue and orange, wisps of magic breaking and swirling around the center. Miraak didn’t let go of her wrist.

“What is that?” She asked, ignoring his snort.

“You have never held a dragon soul, _ahtlahzey?_ ” She was silent. “Of course you haven’t. There is no power behind the name Dragonborn anymore. No fear.” His tone sounded dismissive at best, condescending at worst. It made her teeth grind together; she was the Dragonborn, a renowned mage, savior of Tamriel. Who was he to treat her like a child? 

 

Miraak cupped his hand and guided her fingers to the soul, letting them briefly touch the malleable surface. Its glow was mesmerizing, reflecting in her clear eyes. He took the chance to examine her features; she was a Nord, he guessed. Tall for a woman—not an Atmoran, but for a Fourth Era female. Her warpaint was the color of charcoal, six lines crisscrossing her face. Her hair he could barely see by the moonlight, a dusky brown with hints of gold. Nowhere close to pure blonde like the Fourth Era’s “true Nords.”

He had laughed at that before. The Nords of the present were reckless, prideful creatures. As far as he was concerned, he was the only true Nord left.

 

She let her hand fall away and took a weary step back.

“Why are you here?”

Miraak closed his fist and the dragon soul crawled up his arm, parts of it vanishing into the dragonblood pumping in his veins.

“Besides showing me the dragon soul you took. If you’re here to make another speech about power and escaping death, I’m going back to sleep. I'll deal with you later, big man.”

He would’ve chuckled, had he not come here for a very deliberate reason. That reason began with wrapping his hand around her neck.

 

“You have your shortcomings, _ahtlahzey_ , but you also have immense power. I commend you on it—I was able to feel you the moment you stepped foot on Solstheim. That has not happened in a very long time.” Tharya’s hands flew to his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip, which was just tight enough to deny her air. She was strong, he’d give her that. “Do not struggle.” He cooed. She didn't listen, but once his fingers began to dig painfully into her windpipe, she stopped. He watched with thick satisfaction as she hesitantly heeded his words. Like a trained dog.

Miraak’s hand loosened. She gasped at the relief. 

“You have always been powerful.” He closed his eyes, confident she couldn’t see his face, and said the spell somewhere in the back of his head.

 

Tharya watched as the Dragon Priest’s form suddenly became ethereal, the moon shining straight through him onto the ground. He hadn’t Shouted though—had he? Somehow his hand on her neck remained.

“You should experience life without the power you were born with.” His hand shifted to her jaw, thumb tilting her head up. She reached out to stop him, but her fingers went through the ethereal fabric of his robes. 

Miraak flexed his fingers before shoving his fist into the woman’s chest. 

 

Her dov erupted at his touch, roaring to its kin. It made shudders erupt down his spine. With agonizingly slow speed, the same kind of wispy blue-orange magic began seeping out of her, like water wrung from a cloth. Her open mouth, her nostrils, falling like steamy tears from her eyes. Her entire body jerked once the leakage of dragon souls found its way to him. His lips tasted magic, nose inhaling the ancient scent of burnt parchment. 

Tharya jerked in his grip. Her dov whined, confused as to why one of its brethren would do this. She had captured more souls than he initially thought; somehow, this Fourth Era Nord continued to impress him. Minutely, but it was something. Something to at least remember her by once he broke free of Apocrypha with her lifeforce.

He felt himself pulled forward—whether by the call of her dov or the sheer power leaking off her lips—and sealing his mouth over hers.

More and more of her life essence poured into him, and the cry of her soul became fainter and fainter. His ghostly fingers flexed again and he retracted his arm from her chest. With a whisper, the souls found their way out of him and back into her. 

“I do not wish to kill you, _ahtlahzey_ ,” he murmured, looking down on her through eyes half-lidded with a lust for power. “Leave Solstheim, and I will not pursue you.” The sheer feeling of her lips against his as he spoke drove a different part of him to intoxication. Her ragged breathing broke against his skin like waves on a coastline. 

The Last Dragonborn swayed on her feet.

“You wish,” she slurred, and then fell from his grip to the ground. 

 

Miraak stayed for a moment longer, reigniting the fire by her side with a simple spell.

“I believe it would be in your best interest, _ahtlahzey_.” He mumbled.

The Dragon Priest left no trace of his presence after vanishing from her makeshift camp, leaving her body slumped by the crackling fire in the shadow of the Word Wall. 

 

* * *

 

“Is something wrong, Dragonborn?” Frea asked, frowning at the woman walking beside her. The Dragonborn had hardly spoken a word since her return to the Skaal village, and now trudged through the snow towards the shaman's hut with her gaze fixed on her boots. “Are you sick? Troubled? Perhaps my father can help, after all this is sorted out.”

Tharya grunted.

“I had the most bizarre dream last night.”


	3. At the Summit of Apocrypha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tharya faces off against the first dragonborn at the summit of apocrypha, but things don't end as planned.

“May she be rewarded for her service as I am!”

It was hard to tell whether or not the First Dragonborn was being smart with the Daedric Prince, but she didn’t care. Her eyes fell to her staff, just out of reach, too close to Hermaeus Mora’s hovering form to risk. Gods, how had it come to this? Sahrotaar had taken her to Miraak, the big bastard who had taken her dragon souls, the bastard who had shoved an arm through her chest, the bastard who loved to swing his ego around in front of her. But she had tried to reason with him. They could escape, together. _With our combined manpower we could get rid of Hermaeus Mora long enough to get out of here._  

 

He had laughed in her face.

 

" _This_ is what you call a reward? That’s not right,” she called.

“And, hmm, why is that, Dragonborn?” He wriggled the tentacle that was pierced through Miraak’s torso. The man cried out. It was the most human noise she’d ever heard leave him. “Have you not already, hm, _allied_ yourself with my peers? Have they not given you the mark of champion?”

“Sanguine is a drunk who doesn’t **imprison** people for thousands of years.” Her muscles sore and arms shaking, she pushed herself, with a groan, onto her knees. “I would never want to stay here. It smells terrible and everything’s tried to kill me so far--not my ideal vacation.” With an effort, Tharya staggered to her feet, wishing again for her staff to lean on. Her bones creaked in protest as she moved and she spit out a messy wad of blood and tissue, groaning.

 

“You are a talented spellcaster, Dragonborn,” Mora drawled, disregarding Miraak’s body growing limper and limper with every passing minute. Gods, she had to make a decision soon. “Will you refuse the offer I make? To study the most ancient of spells, to take life and death as you please?”

Her eyes shot to Miraak’s mask, ever lazily content, never giving away the countenance of the face below. Beneath that, surely, was a man, countenance one of agony, the last breaths being drawn from his unnaturally long life. 

“You don’t have to be the villain here.” She stumbled forward, slowly, step by step. “You know spells, Shouts? Pass your knowledge to me. You don’t want Solstheim, it’s nothing but an ash heap.”

“Enough!” Hermaeus Mora barked, “Your charade will end in nothing but your conjoined demise, Dragonborn.” It was unclear which of them he was talking to, but she advanced regardless. A slick tendril moved up Miraak’s body and slid around his head, pushing his mask off with almost parental gentleness. It clattered to the floor, face up. Though it had no owner now, it still felt as if the mask itself was staring her down.

Miraak was a Nord, just like her, with dark hair, dusky bronze skin, and a short beard. _Atmoran_ , rather. Parallel scars adorned the bridge of his proud nose, another splitting his left eyebrow. He looked beyond distressed and furious, not even looking at her once before his venomous glare landed on the Daedric Prince. The light was fading from his eyes. The right side of his face was more...scale than skin, like someone had tore his flesh open to reveal what lay below.

“Accept my gift, Last Dragonborn, and abandon your kinsman, or die with him.”

For the first time, Miraak looked at her. He looked confused and agitated and disappointed and shocked—not by the betrayal, but that his death would come so easily, so privately, away from everyone else in the world. So many other things were etched into his face, but most of all fear. Intense fear.

 

“Talos preserve us both, then.”

With the last strength in her body, she leapt forward and drew her sword. The wretched abyss that Hermaeus Mora manifested himself as drew back with a reeling screech as she sliced at the tentacle holding Miraak, and at the others who tried to retake him. The First Dragonborn barely landed on his feet, almost diving straight into the slimy pool of shimmering tar below him. The acidic green skies swirled, appearing and disappearing as he rolled down the steps like a forgotten doll. His hands fell to his torso and came away coated with blood. There was magicka left pumping in his veins, so with trembling fingers he pressed a healing spell to the gaping wound. It was a terrible feeling, to have your insides knitted together. Made his toes curl in his boots and his jaw lock up.

 

There was squelch as another part of tentacle was cut off and fell to the ground, and then after it, the sword. The Dragonborn twirled her staff with ease on her fingers, braced herself, and let an ear-splitting Shout into the sky:

“ _Faas...ru_ **_maar_**!”

The sound that accompanied it was like a crack of thunder strong enough to break the skies, shake Nirn to its core. The magic of her Voice in such proximity nearly knocked him unconscious, after centuries of hearing only himself and his Thu’um. He was unaccustomed to the magic of another, certainly not another _Dragonborn_.

Hermaeus Mora gave a half-gargle, half-scream before he folded in on himself and disappeared, cursing the entire time. Tharya stood ready for a moment more, prepared for the Prince to return in even greater strength, but he didn’t. A low groan of pain from behind alerted her to Miraak’s presence at the foot of the steps. She grabbed her sword and stumbled down, falling to her knees beside him. She hovered for a moment, entranced with seeing _him_ for the first time, before snapping her eyes away.

Her healing spell on top of his made his skin crawl and his insides heave, but he was determined to heal himself however much he needed to get out of this wretched place alive.

“Now we just need an escape plan,” the Last Dragonborn was saying to herself. Her magicka disappeared and she grabbed him by the arms, pulling him up whether he liked it or not, and throwing one of his limbs over her shoulders. Miraak swayed like a leaf in the summer breeze, brown skin turned ashy grey. There was no place to go on the Summit of Apocrypha.

 

A rumbling started below their feet, shaking the floor. A curved roof appeared from the circle of menacing tar in the Summit’s center. Then four stone posts, all surprisingly dry, and the beginnings of a pedestal.

They had stumbled back from the structure in unison, suspicious of its intent. He had paused only to scoop his mask up. Now, though, Tharya pushed him away, into a shadow cast by a high wall and towards the edge of the Summit. They stood together, pressed against the wall in darkness, and watched the rest of the tower emerge from the water.

Miraak’s fist closed around the healing spell.

“A Black Book,” he breathed, his voice hoarse and weak. Tharya shifted forwards, reluctant to leave their cloak of darkness. After a minute of silently examining the Book, she grabbed his sleeve.

“A way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> faas ru maar - dismay shout
> 
>  
> 
> it seemed like a lot of people really liked chapter one (which is so amazing for me!!) so i only hope this chapter and the next are just as good. but my writing is kinda like an abandoned house in which it's really cool and special for a little but eventually it just deteriorates into nothing


	4. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dovahzul translations at the end! the spell miraak used is totally made up btw, i was thinking it was maybe a prayer said to Auri-El in the Mythic Era, which Miraak recites in dovahzul because that's his language. i'll probably describe it more in the epilogue :)

It took him a minute to regain his breathing, to control it again. Each breath hurt his torso immensely, but he said nothing of it. The Last Dragonborn moved back to his side, flames flickering in her palm. They cast a dim light at her face, making her look more phantom than Nord. Her eyes scanned him and then the sky behind him.

  
“You said you were a champion of escaping death. Any ideas?”

Miraak was silent. Though the words were his, they had come from a different time, born from different circumstances. He always harbored reservations about Hermaeus Mora, and the wound in his chest was proof that he had been smart to. 

“You...why are you doing this, _ahtlahzey_?”

Tharya closed her fist, and the flames dancing in her palm vanished, as did the dim ring of light they had been sitting in, cloaking the First and Last Dragonborn in total darkness.

“Quite a few reasons,” she replied, voice low. “I’m sure I can write up a list once we get out of here.”

Miraak only grunted. Her smugness would get her nowhere in Apocrypha. It would do nothing against Hermaeus Mora, nothing to secure their lives.

“There is no escape from this place,” the Dragon Priest muttered, focusing his magicka to the healing spell crackling around his fingertips. Gingerly, he pressed it to his torso. It still felt as if the tentacle was piercing him, breaking his skin for the first time. The spell brought the throbbing to a dull ache, but it wouldn’t last. He wouldn’t last. Neither would she.

“You’ve been here for thousands of years,” her voice broke through the pitch black between them. “You must know of something.”

Oh, he knew plenty from his permanent guest status. Mora seduced him with knowledge early on, kept it flowing for years, healed the wounds Vahlok dealt him, bandaged his pride. He learned things that had been lost in the centuries since the Merethic Era, but never learned of an escape. Not for lack of looking, but that had become dangerous in recent years. Slowly, his presence in Apocrypha had been narrowed down, confined to one little corner of the realm. Less guest, more prisoner.

“There is nothing, _ahtlahzey_.”

 

Miraak’s dark eyes fixed on the swirling skies again. A sickly shade of green, movements akin to that of water. He had always thought it more sea than sky, but now its color was darkened.

“Your Shout was powerful, but it will not keep Hermaeus Mora away forever.”

“What’s on that side?”

He didn’t have to check.

“The edge of Apocrypha,” Miraak grit out. He dared a glance downwards, as if he hadn’t stood at the edge before. “Falling from the summit is no quick death.”

He could imagine her war paint shifting on her face as her brow crinkled, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no tier below. You will fall for eternity.”

“Oh.”

“This place is a never-ending prison, _ahtlahzey_. You were foolish to stay.”

“Listen, big guy. I’m here now and I’m damn well your only chance of getting out here alive,” she sounded irritated but he didn’t care, “so try to work with me, please.”

 _If we get out._  

 

“There is a spell,” Miraak said quietly, his lips moving before he even truly formed the thought in his head. It was ancient and powerful, but he could cast it. The spell would not kill Hermaeus Mora; even with millennia of studying Apocrypha’s libraries, he had never learned of something that could do that. Tharya turned to him.

“Hopefully the Daedra-killing kind of spell?”

“I have yet to come across one of that kind,” Miraak turned away from the edge of Apocrypha, leaning on his shoulder, “but this may hurt him enough. The window will be small-”

“I’ll take it.” She cut him off, nodding. “If you can cast it, be ready to.”

“I’ll need your staff.”

 

He could feel her hesitation, but after some fumbling in the dark the staff found its way to his open palm. He remembered seeing it earlier; made of dark red wood, carved around the middle, and holding a bright soul gem on both ends set in a metal casing. He flipped it in his hands. It was heavier than his staff, but the weight was balanced, not topheavy like his own. 

Her presence—her _dov_ —shifted away from him, taking an experimental step back towards the Summit.

 

“The Black Book is there. If we can get to it, I can take us back to Solstheim.”

“Reckless.”

“You think hiding in the corner is more effective?” She turned around to face the source of his voice in the dark. Miraak felt his jaw tighten, an old feeling seeping into his veins. Apocrypha always had him on edge, but now it was making his heart hammer against his chest. Fear. Familiarly bitter, fear is what he tasted now, mingling with his breath. “We should go, while he’s still licking his wounds.”

“Your Thu’um was not that-“

“We can argue later.” Her hands fell open and then together at the wrists, fingers conjuring up a strong-set ward that materialized silently in front of her. He actually scoffed out loud.  
“Do you think your little ward will save us from the Daedric Lord of Fate?”

“Stay with me, and maybe we’ll make it out alive. Keep that spell handy.”

Against his want, Miraak held his tongue. There was no way they would make it, he knew. Something told him she was just as aware. There was no way her Shout had wounded Mora so thoroughly; he was a Daedric Prince, an otherworldly being. More powerful than either of them combined. He followed anyway, sword in one hand and ice whispering around the knuckles of the other. Tharya hesitated before stepping back into the light, but her ward never faltered. He had to admit, though it would do nothing against Mora, it was incredibly strong; she was incredibly strong. Not as potent as he was when it came to magicka—his reserves ran unbelievably deep—but commendable. The only thing he could hear was his own breath hitting the inside of his mask, quickening in pace, the creak of his leather gloves as his fingers readjusted on the sword.

 

They moved at an agonizing pace, making the short journey from the edge of the Summit to its center slower than a funeral procession. The Last Dragonborn led the way to the short tower, ascending the steps backwards one at a time. Miraak felt the air grow thick with tension, with possibility. Not fifteen minutes ago he had almost died on these very steps; if Hermaeus Mora had his way, both of them would be swallowed by the abyss of Apocrypha until the end of time. Gods, he could not think of a worse person to spend the rest of eternity with. Tharya finally turned, briefly touching the raised design on the cover. A mass of tentacles, worn by time, encircled with a thin green lace.

 

She wrenched the book open, moving with pressured haste to find the page that would bring them back.

“By the Nine—here it is!” She said, placing her hands on the pages. His feet found the stairs as hers did, taking him up one at a time while his eyes remained trained on the skies.

“ _Vosaraan, ahtlahzey_.”

“This should take us back-“

He turned just in time to see familiar tentacles shoot from the book’s binding. His feet took an unconscious step back but Tharya grabbed him by the sleeve to keep him close. He had opened one of these Black Books before, he knew how they worked, pulling the reader through the pages and spitting them out the other end. But these tentacles were not there to pull them through. They were pushing something _out_.

The skies of Apocrypha grew even darker, shrouding them in artificial night. Out of the Black Book rose a mob of accusatory eyes, dragging behind them a dark plasma that morphed and shifted in the air. More tentacles fell like heavy corpses from the pages, oozing and slick, pushing the grotesque form of Hermaeus Mora from the binding. Miraak felt his hand go slack around the sword. The Dragonborn didn’t release his sleeve.

It was already too late.

 

He disregarded the spell in his hand and instead opened his palm against the blade of his sword.

“Did you think you could escape me so _easily_ , Miraak?” Hermaeus Mora roared, each letter in the dragon priest’s name enunciated.

“It’s me you have to worry about, now, Mora,” Tharya pushed Miraak away and took a few large steps in the opposite direction. The mass of eyeballs, plasma and tentacles shifted.

“ _YOU!_ ” He bellowed, tentacles flicking forward like whips.

With a vertical cut across his palm, Miraak gripped the center of the staff, letting his blood soak the wood.

“ _Rah do kun, hon zu nu_.”

“If you are so eager to take his place, champion, you will suffer his fate as well.”

“ _Kogaan daar, hin zun._ ”

Mora growled as the Last Dragonborn fended off his tentacles, cutting through one that tried to take her leg.

“ _Daar zu aal spaan daar lein._ ” A strange sensation entered his veins, a rush of power akin to that he felt when absorbing a dragon soul. The staff began to shake in his hand and hum quietly. Mora gurgled again as he lost another tentacle, but her efforts were fruitless; where one fell, three more shot out from the abyss. 

“ _Do fin unslaad tahrovin do volum._ ”

Another yell, but this time not from the Daedric Prince. He didn’t look up. 

“ _Rah do kun, kogaan zu nu.”_

 

Tharya hacked at the appendage around her knee, successfully taking it off. It fell to the ground and writhed with its counterparts for a moment before falling still. Just as she prepared to slice through another, a slick limb wound around her sword arm. Dawnbreaker tumbled out of her grip. Another arm squeezed around her waist and lifted her off the floor. A third found her neck and tightened.

 

For a moment her gaze fell to Miraak, who was holding her staff vertical in both hands, head bowed, one knee to the floor. The staff was bathed in light, trembling in the dragon priest’s hands. And _ringing_. High-pitched ringing emanated from the weapon. Slowly, Miraak’s voice rose above it, reclaiming its former echo in Apocrypha:

“ _Hin vahlok ko fin vokun. Ko hin qalos, zu laan daar do hi!_ ”

The staff began to shake violently, the ringing increasing. Dots blackened the edges of her vision. The damp air of Apocrypha could make it down her throat no longer.

Then, in an explosion of golden light, Miraak stood, clothed in a halo of divine illumination. The ethereal features of a dragon crowned his head and shoulders, cloaking his arms. Strength flooded from Tharya’s body just as it entered his.

 

“I am no longer your prisoner, Hermaeus Mora.”

His voice, thick with his accent, had reclaimed its glorified echo in the openness Apocrypha; he hadn’t realized how much he missed it until it came back. How much confidence it instilled in his tone. He watched the Last Dragonborn go limp in the Prince’s clutches. His feet spread as Mora began to reply with something, something he wasn’t listening to. _I am no longer your prisoner. I am no longer your prisoner. I am no longer your prisoner._

Just as he could feel Tharya’s soul slipping away, he threw the staff directly into the wretched abyss. Hermaeus Mora gave a blood-curdling scream, dropping the Dragonborn in an instant. He rubbed at his hundreds of eyes, screaming profanities in some ancient language Miraak didn’t understand, vows of revenge, vows of death. The staff’s glow intensified, and then Hermaeus Mora imploded in the light and disappeared, his voice vanishing into silence. 

 

**_I am no longer your prisoner._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vosaraan: hurry/quickly  
> rah do kun, hon zu'u nu: god of light, hear me now  
> kogaan daar, hin zun: bless this, your weapon  
> daar zu'u aal spaan daar lein: that i may protect this world  
> do fin unslaad tahrovin do volum: from the unending danger of darkness  
> rah do kun, kogaan zu'u nu: god of light, bless me now  
> hin vahlok ko fin vokun: your guardian in the shadow  
> ko hin qalos, zu'u laan daar do hi!: in your presence, i ask this of you!


	5. Champion of Death

The Argonians in the Assemblage gave him strange looks throughout the day, but sideways glances were nothing compared to nearly being kicked out the frost-bitten night Tharya had dragged him back to the door. His wound had reopened, and Daedric taint was slowly claiming his body more violently than it ever had in Apocrypha.  _This_ was what he should’ve looked like after four thousand years, and yet Hermaeus Mora had only taken his eyes. There were no empty beds, so the Last Dragonborn had given up her bedroll and furs for him to lay on, tucked away on the slightly raised sides of the main chamber. The first day Tharya stayed with him, cleaning his wound again and redressing it, battling his overwhelming fever back down by nightfall, knowing that if he didn’t make it through this night he wouldn’t make it through the rest. He had hazy memory of that period, from when the sun set until it rose again in the morning. He distinctly remembered the feeling of her pulling his arm aside to check the pulse in his wrist every hour, and the feeling of the one instance she had pressed his clammy hand between her own and forced his clenched fingers to straighten, to relax. He remembered that, but little else.

 

The second day he woke up, which was highly unexpected in its own right. Some part of him had prepared to die the night previous, and yet his eyes opened to the feeling of the Last Dragonborn taking his arm and checking his pulse. He was too weak to pull himself away. She said something and then with a low groan, pushed herself off the floor. There was a brief conversation with one of the Argonians, and she tumbled into a bed and slept. He followed suit.

 

The third, fourth, and fifth days, an Argonian woman took Tharya’s place, and sat dutifully beside his collection of furs and blankets and spoke to him. He only tried to speak once, to give her his name when she asked, but his throat was swollen and felt coated the same kind of pungent slickness that came from Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles. She offered him water which he immediately threw up. But she sat with him nevertheless, her scaly fingers checking his pulse less regularly than Tharya had. When she asked if he was hungry he only shook his head. Sometimes he slept and other times she read to him, but he could not tell her to stop. He had no interest in books anymore. She described to him that the Dragonborn was a bit of a revered figure for the Elves and Argonians in Windhelm; she stuck her fist in someone named Rolff’s face regularly and consistently voiced the need for change that they were too scared to call out for. She told him that the Last Dragonborn was out on the docks helping with the workload, and yet she would not take a coin from their pay as thanks. Miraak gave a broken, quiet scoff. Her kindness was misplaced and useless.

 

Shahvee didn’t return to him the sixth day, but she must’ve told Tharya about his many failed attempts to stomach food, because the Last Dragonborn returned and gave his throat an uncomfortable examination. Her fingers were a cool relief against his feverish skin, even as they poked and prodded and felt his throat. She pulled the blankets away from his bare torso and he watched her clear eyes widen. Quickly the fur fell back over him. She moved each of his limbs, lifted his legs to bend them at the knee. He hadn’t realized how numb his body had gone until that moment, when blood flow seemed to miraculously return to his extremities.  
“I’m going to go to the apothecary,” she said, taking a fur from the pile and wrapping it around her shoulders, “and get something for the taint.”

 

When she left he found the strength to push the covers back and examine himself, try to find what had surprised her so. Even in the dim light, even with his dark skin, it was obvious: his veins were turning black as night.

 

Perhaps he would die after all.

 

* * *

 

 

She returned from the apothecary less than an hour later. That hour had given him ample time to remember and recite the dirges and burial rites and chants in his head, the ones he had delivered for others countless times but never for himself. No one would recite them for him.  
  
Tharya tucked the fur around his legs and then sat on the low step with her back to him, crushing and mixing something in a mortar. There was a sickening squelching sound and a low curse, and then wet grinding, and carefully she moved over to his side, setting the little bowl down.  
“Can you sit up?” He didn’t reply, but instead moved his arms, trying uselessly to push himself up on trembling arms. She grabbed his shoulders and helped him, no matter how much he tried to shake her off. “It’s a potion of curing disease,” she explained, picking up the bowl once he was sitting upright, “with something that’ll hopefully get rid of the taint.”  _Hopefully?_ Did she have any idea what she was doing? No, of course not. She was the incompetent and hopeless Last Dragonborn. “And I need you to drink all of it.”

 

He would’ve snorted if he could.

 

Large hands found the bowl incredibly heavy to hold, but with her supporting the bottom, he was able to bring it to his dry lips, and swallow. The liquid was  _vile_. It tasted of raw blood and half-ground  _bone_ and ash. Later he would learn she’d mixed mudcrab chitin with a charred skeever hide, an actual potion, and a Daedra heart, though he would like hearing the combination even less. When he tried to throw it back up she clamped a hand over his mouth and apologized. He began to shake, to tremble, and chills racked his body only to be replaced with dizzying flashes of heat. She cradled his head and laid him back down. The bowl clattered to the floor.

 

He did not sleep that night. No Argonians came to look or speak at him, no one even spared him a glance. He quivered and twitched and thrashed all while the Last Dragonborn sat vigilantly at his side, saying nothing, but checking his pulse when she could wrestle his arms away from his chest. Around midnight he cried out and woke the entire Assemblage, and then Tharya shifted closer.  
“You’re almost there.” She whispered to him, but he did not know where she was implying he was going. The afterlife? It surely felt like it. Her fingertips glowed with a healing spell that cured his headache, and then she held it there to calm his overreacting nerves.

 

When morning came he had stilled, and when Tharya’s hand checked his forehead she seemed pleased. His pulse as well. She lifted the fur and only nodded.  
“Thought I lost you a couple hours ago when you stopped moving,” she admitted with a little chuckle, tucking the blanket under his arm, “turns out you’d just won the fight.”

 

He was the First Dragonborn. He didn’t lose.

 

The next few days were a long series of trial and error; he could not walk but eventually he could eat, and even after that he could speak. Within another day he could make it from his bedding to the long fireplace and back. He could do all this, but still he refused to acknowledge that the Last Dragonborn had anything to give besides snippy jokes and a weak Voice.

 

He had nothing to thank her for, yet.


	6. First and Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably the worst written chapter out of all four, so there may be some coming revisions and things in the near future. until then, it's the last chapter! thank you so much to all those who have read and commented and helped me out. also, please feel free to leave ideas for what kind of tharyaak (it's a gross ship name but i love it) content you want to see soon!! i have no big piece plans in mind except for some prompt stuff. much appreciated!

_The ash was bitter in his mouth, choking his air off before he rolled onto his back. The sky was grey and smoky. Miraak inhaled deeply, trying to ignore to pounding in his temples. The air was clean, cool. Not thick or damp. His lungs were singing praise. He laid there in the ash, hearing nothing but the distant roll of the waves, his own ragged breathing. The grey in the sky parted for a mere second to give way to a wink of blue._

_They had made it._

 

* * *

 

He was relieved when he could finally leave the Assemblage. After days in and out of consciousness, ever since he stepped off the boat--which he didn't remember, either--and after days of lying on the threshold of death in a strange place, in a time that wasn't his own, he was glad to do _something_. The last thing he could vividly recall was landing in the ash of Solstheim. Tharya spoke briefly of spending some time at a wizard’s house on the island-- _Neloth._  But he had no recollection of that, either.

 

It was a shock that Windhelm was still standing in decent condition; he knew Ysgramor had built the city with bones to withstand the bones of time, but had his doubts, as usual. Evidently, he had succeeded. They passed through a group of reptilian-looking people who all seemed gladdened by the Dragonborn’s presence. Miraak hung back while she conversed with one of them; a female, he guessed purely by the curve of her chest.

Their interactions on the boat had been few and far between, and mostly one-sided. He had dragged them out of Apocrypha, but she had bought their passage, gotten him to the wizard, to Raven Rock and then the boat. He wondered how long he’d been out but didn’t ask. She let him sleep in the one bed, and slept on the floor not far away or tucked in a bed roll on the deck, beneath the stars. She walked slowly, and occasionally leaned on her staff—the staff _he_ had taken from Apocrypha—like a walking stick.

 

* * *

 

 

_Hermaeus Mora’s voice echoed shrill in his ears, fading out of existence. His hands still shook with its power, but now with something else: uncertainty. He was free now. He, Miraak, First Dragonborn, Lord of Solstheim, Priest of the Dragon Cult, the Traitor—he was free. Released. Unburdened._

_Liberated._

_He staggered forward, to the crumpled heap of the Last Dragonborn. She was breathing but unconscious, but he convinced himself not to care. With his foot, he pushed her over so her face was visible. The purple was beginning to fade from her cheeks, the veins in her neck subsided. Choking—how quaint. Miraak would’ve prayed to be choked rather than tortured in every way possible for millennia. She had gotten Hermaeus Mora’s good side._

 

_He hobbled to the staff, stopping halfway. Part of it was still glowing, faintly but glowing nonetheless. When he lifted it off the ground, the left side tipped._

 

_It had molded into some kind of spear-staff, one end a spearhead and the other still holding a grand soul gem. Made out of the same material as Elven armor, but with a better golden tint. The metal had seeped into the wooden half like liquid, strengthening its hold. Lightweight, but heavier than the wood it used to be. The faint glow remained. Miraak didn’t read too much into it. The prayer to Auri-El hadn’t been said in centuries, not since the god himself led the Aldmer army before ascending to the heavens. He was only vaguely surprised something had gone awry._

 

_He took the staff and returned to the Last Dragonborn. A tiny part of his conscious said to leave her here; let her suffer Mora for all those years he had, and the Daedric Prince might leave him alone. But a bigger part, one he hadn’t touched in centuries, said no._

_So he grabbed her by the arms and dragged her to the steps, slung her over his shoulder like a sack, and let the Black Book’s tendrils encase him one last time._

 

* * *

 

 

“...Argonians in the Merethic Era?”

Miraak blinked, remaining still. He had lost himself in thought for the first time since...since a long time ago. It had made the muscles in his shoulders oddly calm. Tharya was returning to him, holding a wicker basket of food. She looked up at him expectantly when she got close enough. “Did you see any Argonians in the Merethic Era?” She repeated, a look lingering on her eyes telling him she knew he’d spaced out.

Miraak only peered behind her to the Argonians of the Fourth Era. _Argonians_. He remembered the name now; he had not met or known of any in his time as a Priest, but in Apocrypha he had read of them, seen a precious few. Not enough to remember the name of the race when presented with one thousands of years later.

“No. We did not.”

It was the first thing he’d said since Apocrypha. His vocal cords were hoarse with lack of use and throat dry. She looked surprised before gesturing to the city behind her.

“We should get going.”

Windhelm was not entirely as he remembered it. The Snow Quarter was a slum, filled with Dunmer faces who either stared at him or turned their heads away. The stone stairs were dislodged, crumbling, cracking. The walls were under evident stress from years of ignorance; the toppled bases of braziers stood like memorials to the past. He had seen the city when it was first built by Ysgramor--a big bear of a man, he was. Gleaming, glittering, stones polished and cut to perfection. Tall and proud, not the crippled tomb it had become.

 

“Flowers, sir?” Miraak’s attention was called downwards to a child all but clinging to the hem of his robes. A little girl in a tattered red dress, looking desperate and cold. She was skinny and shivering and holding a basket full of various flora towards him. “Maybe one for your lady friend?”

Even if he was interested in the flowers, he had no money. _Divines, he didn’t even know what the currency was_. The girl seemed to be the only one not shrinking away from his black gaze or the dragon-headed staff he carried. 

“You have any Dragon’s Tongue in there?” Tharya all but pushed him aside, crouching in front of the youth as she spoke. The girl hardly broke his gaze, but her cheeks flushed.

“Dragon’s Tongue? I don’t know which they would be.”

He turned into the oncoming breeze that broke on the walls and funneled into the narrow street. The air was bitter; even with the Atmorans’ legendary resistance to such conditions, he felt it. With it came a gust of snow, a taste of the weather yet to come. Apocrypha had been so lukewarm and damply uncomfortable for thousands of years, he had forgotten the way the cold made goose flesh of his arms. Atmora had been in prime condition when he left it, but he had watched it deteriorate over the years from the prison of Apocrypha. It had been a beautiful place, lush and glorious.

He missed it.

 

“Are you coming?”

Miraak blinked slowly, looking up. The Last Dragonborn was waiting patiently for him, two Dragon’s Tongue flowers in her hand. Her grey eyes narrowed at him before moving on.

They exited the Snow Quarter and came to a relatively open space. Ahead and to the right was another set of stairs, just as decrepit and pitiful as the ones he had noted before. The city Ysgramor had built was hardly alive.

“I assume I don’t have to tell you we’re in Windhelm.” Tharya spoke from ahead, stopping near the stairs. The spearhead _clinked_ as it rested on the stones below. With a vague gesture around her, she added: “shithole that it is.”

“It was not always like this,” Miraak said pointedly. For the first time since he had been carted off Solstheim by the woman in front of him, he felt himself. As the edge of his words faded, so too did this feeling.

“We’ll spend the night,” she sounded doubtful, “and go north tomorrow to the College of Winterhold.”

 _Ahtlahzey._ Archmage.

She turned to him, examining his face for longer than he felt was necessary, and nodded.

“Welcome back.”

 

_And so the Last Dragonborn saved the First Dragonborn from the Summit of Apocrypha._

 


End file.
